


Truancy

by uumuu



Series: To Fall Into Place [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Half-Sibling Incest, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin gets what he wants, and Caranthir reminds him of something important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truancy

“I met Melkor earlier this afternoon. He was waiting for me when I left the Palace, after visiting our father,” Ñolofinwë said, as he withdrew from Fëanáro, trailing the tip of his tongue over his lower lip to relish the aftertaste of their kiss. “He wanted to talk to me about my position in the Royal Family, particularly vis-à-vis you and a...possible succession.”

“Did he?” Fëanáro said, stiffly, throwing the book he still held – the one he had been reading when Ñolofinwë had let himself into the living room – on the coffee table. 

“He seems to be very interested in the nature of our relationship.” 

“What did you tell him?”

“I thanked him for his concern, and told him I am constantly on my guard...of course,” Ñolofinwë airily said. He had been subtly ambiguous, affecting grave interest, and had managed to remain composed throughout the conversation, though it had taken some effort: he would have simply wanted to laugh in the Vala's face.

Fëanáro stared at him, with a look between annoyance and worry, then walked past him, making for the door. 

Ñolofinwë, though taken by surprise, managed to grab his left arm.“Where are you going?” 

“To have a word with him.”

Fëanáro tried to leave again, but Ñolofinwë held him back.

“Fëanáro, there's no need to.”

“I don't like the way he talks to us. He has been trying to talk to me, too, and my sons. He's been vexingly insistent. The Valar say he has been reformed, but I don't trust him.”

Fëanáro's forehead furrowed, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Ñolofinwë had at other times made light of that expression, dismissed Fëanáro's dislike of the Valar as prejudiced and excessive. Fëanáro's mistrust was now rather comforting: it validated and soothed his own distaste in the presence of Melkor. “I don't like him, either.”

“Then let me go.”

“What are you going to tell him, that we have been having sex regularly for a few years and are now bound to each other?”

“Obviously not. I will merely tell him to stop harassing us.”

Fëanáro shrugged his shoulder, trying to wrench his arm free, his gaze lowered to Ñolofinwë's hand. 

Ñolofinwë relented his hold on him – but didn't let go altogether – and took a couple of steps forward to plant himself before Fëanáro, and between him and the door. “Don't,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Let's play with him.”

“Play?”

“Surely he believes he has an advantage over us, but he is blind to the most important fact. If not even a Vala can tell that we are lovers, it means we have been doing a very good job of keeping it a secret. Let's lead him on,” Ñolofinwë said. Fëanáro's expression changed, his frown eased somewhat, but not as much as Ñolofinwë wanted, so he opted for a different strategy. He pulled Fëanáro closer – gently – and lowered his face until their foreheads were almost touching. “I haven't sneaked through the whole town in order to see you run off.”

Fëanáro gave a low grunt at that, and seemed to be recalled to the reality of the moment, to what such an impromptu visit – one of the many Ñolofinwë paid him – would entail. He lifted his eyes to Ñolofinwë's face again, and brushed his cheek with his right hand, his fingers curling softly around it. Ñolofinwë quivered keenly in response. 

“What is it that you want today?” Fëanáro asked.

Ñolofinwë gave a triumphant smile which immediately turned sultry. His reply was a mere two words: “Watch me.”

He didn't need to say more. Fëanáro and he had by then fallen into a routine. It was a simple arrangement, but satisfying for the both of them: he stated his desire, Fëanáro fulfilled it. He set the stage, and handed control over to Fëanáro, knowing that Fëanáro would do whatever he asked him to do, knowing that his big brother would indulge his every lustful whim, regale him as a lover, gentle or rough or the two together. 

Sometimes, Ñolofinwë was afraid just how far he was ready to go with him. 

Fëanáro tapped his fingertips against his lips and dragged them over his jaw, ticklishly arousing, and nodded. He turned his back on Ñolofinwë, and walked back to the sofa. He sat on it, one leg on the ground and the other folded over it. His fingers he twined together in his lap, a gesture of haughty self-possession. 

“Well then, pull down your pants...and your breeches too, of course,” he instructed in a firm tone that well hid his excitement.

Ñolofinwë speedily obeyed: he had been dreaming of _that_ at every surreptitious turn he made in the streets, imagining the feeling of his own pants sliding down along his legs, his desire growing stronger with every stride he took. It had grown so strong that he feared all the people he did his best to avoid would just _hear_ it notwithstanding. His hands worked nimbly, and soon he was standing with his pants and breeches around his ankles, his cock already more than half-hard. 

Fëanáro nodded appreciatively. “Sit down.”

Ñolofinwë ambled awkwardly towards the sofa opposite the one Fëanáro was sitting on, and perched on the edge of it. 

“Open your legs...wider.”

Ñolofinwë did, shameless. His hands rested on his own thighs, waiting. He yearned to touch himself at last. His cock twitched eagerly. He tried to keep his breathing even, but with little success: the fire he needed the most was in Fëanáro's eyes, in the possessiveness with which they licked over his naked legs and crotch, as if they wanted to mark them. And then the command finally came.

“Touch yourself.”

Ñolofinwë's right hand promptly curled around his own cock. He started from the tip, dragging his fingers over his cockhead and down to the root, basking in Fëanáro's gaze and reliving in his mind the thrills of past nights together. He stroked himself leisurely, distillng his pleasure in waves to savour to the fullest.

After a time, Fëanáro shifted his position, and said, “finger your ass.”

Ñolofinwë assented with a moan. He wet the fingers of his free hand with his spit and glided them over his left thigh, careful not to block the view of his cock and balls to Fëanáro. He worked one finger in, and quickly a second one. 

He had barely fallen into a rhythm – moving his right hand up and down while trying to push his fingers in as deep as possible – when the door opened. Carnistir stepped into the room, throwing Ñolofinwë a cursory glance that held nothing in the way of surprise or shock. “Dad...the hooks?” he asked. 

Fëanáro raised his head to him, slightly apologetic. “Oh yes, they're ready...in the red box on my workbench.”

“Thank you,” Carnistir smiled, and turning towards Ñolofinwë again greeted him with a cosily meaningful, “uncle.”

He walked back out and the door almost closed behind him, but at the last moment it opened again, though not wide, and Carnistir's head peered around it. “Not the kitchen,” he quickly said and just as swiftly disappeared.

The door slammed shut. Ñolofinwë threw his head back and laughed. 

“Your sons,” he gasped out, “they're _wonderful_.”

Fëanáro smiled wide, pleased, almost childishly happy: praise of his sons always tickled his pride. “Do you plan to ever tell _your_ sons?”

“I will, one day.” 

“Why not now?”

Ñolofinwë took a deep breath, still smiling. “My children didn't grow up with a father who only sets his own will as limitation to what he wants to do.”

Fëanáro clicked his tongue in disagreement, but waved his hand. “Come.”

Ñolofinwë slid forward on the couch, sitting in precarious balance, and opened his legs wider, gaining better access to his own ass. His index and middle finger pushed inside his hole again, deeper than before, while his right hand returned to its task. He held Fëanáro's gaze, and fisted his cock faster, until his legs began to shake, and his hips jerked upwards. He jammed his fingers so hard inside his ass his wrist hurt. He could almost, almost reach his prostate. His right hand swirled all around his cockhead, then his palm covered the slit, ready to collect his release when he moaned and came. 

There was a rule relating to the carpet of the living room whenever Ñolofinwë wanted to be watched like that: if he let any drops of his seed fall onto it, he would be punished. Most of the time he would simply catch it and smear it over his own abdomen, letting Fëanáro seep into his skin even if he had not had him inside his ass. At others, he would court the consequences of disobedience, inviting an even greater thrill. Therefore, the decision he made then was a very deliberate one. 

He stretched his right arm, and shook his hand once, twice, so that his release fell all over the carpet and on the sofa itself. Fëanáro's eyebrows shot up as he watched the white droplets fly everywhere in mild disbelief, and sudden new excitement.

“That will cost you,” he admonished. 

Ñolofinwë scoffed, brought his hand to his mouth and licking what was left of his seed off it before returning, “I'm very ready to pay.”

They stared at each other fervently. Fëanáro stood up and crossed the room, coming to stand between his legs. Spent and half-naked, Ñolofinwë felt acutely vulnerable, but in a voluptuous, rapturous way. For a moment he was tempted to spurn Melkor and his insinuations – receive Fëanáro's less tender attentions to his heart's content there and then, and walk home with love bites all around his neck as the finest piece of jewelry, Fëanáro's seed squishing divinely hot inside his ass. 

“Tomorrow evening, at the Palace,” Fëanáro's voice cut through his daydream, promising something very similar to it. “I will come looking suitably...angered.”

Ñolofinwë licked his lips in anticipation, and decided he had made a mistake after all: the wait would drive him mad. Then again, it would also make him truly irritable the following day. Perhaps he could just happen to run into Melkor, and vent some of his frustration with the Vala.

Fëanáro clutched his shirt and pulled him up, kissing him roughly.

“Well, put your clothes back on...uncle.”

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place soon after Misplaced - 'the kitchen' refers to what happens in that fic.


End file.
